


A Long Held Memory

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Dean Winchester, Incest, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sam can't trust the alien changed thing the Mark of Cain has made his brother. Even less can he trust every past misstep that's brought him here to this moment.





	A Long Held Memory

**Author's Note:**

> For mobsterdean with apologies for both the length and the lateness

Sam knows his brother in the small ways. The ones that he wouldn't be able to name even if a gun was pointed to his head, but that swim unwittingly to the surface when those little gestures, tiny movements just suddenly cease. He's got a world of experience of being an empty soul in a foreign body, and he recognises those tells like they're the back of his hand. When his body strolled itself through the world, it fucked prostitutes, shot cops and did it without an ounce of regard for the shreds of the man who'd once inhabited it. He knows Dean does his hair like that because it's the way he's been combing it and gelling it since he was seventeen and Missy Winter told him she thought it looked good like that. And after a summer like that, it just stuck. So it's a funny kind of shock when if not the most violent tell, it's the biggest that inside his brother is a strange new open land.  
  
It could have been the serrated blade, the way Dean held it close and to his side like no knife he'd ever owned, the way he looked at Sam with alien eyes and flicked his tongue over his mouth when he told his little brother the ways in which he wanted to hurt him. The ways he'd do it with his teeth if he had the chance. But instead it's a maroon shirt, the colour of day-old spilt wine in lieu of blood and the flick of hair gelled in a different direction that told him that if Dean was not irretrievable, he was lost for the moment.  
  
And when they're handcuffed together it's a brand new shock every time he looks at him, the stranger riding along behind him, bizarre mirror image of every ride they've ever taken in this car. He can smell the afterburn of holy water splashed skin, more than that the strange new scent of Dean's skin. It's a new laundry powder, a new overlying scent of some musky shower gel, and underneath it all the quiet, muted gentle beginnings of sulphur. It's a smell as unlike his brother as he can imagine, and it sits in his nose taunting him. He doesn't know at first what it reminds him of, seeks in vain to place it, long departed olfactory reminiscence sitting in his brain, a lingering pathway traced by a too strong scent.  
  
He tries not to think too hard about it and like a morbid present, a still beating heart wrapped in a satin swathe the answer disgorges itself, drops like a stone into his mind. His brother smells like Brady. The smell he hadn't even realised that Brady carried around with him - the stink of something burning overlaid with whisky and someone else's laundry. And like that, he realizes with a sick shudder that he's not completely soft. Whatever quirk of memory resurrected a long dead demon pal had resurrected something else as well. Even as he drives, he feels the phantom hand of the past crawl up his knee and the quiet sound in his ear. "Studying Sammy?" Brady had only ever called him that he when he was so drunk he could barely see, whispered it in his ear like it was something filthy.  
  
In the back of the car, Dean breathes in deep and his nostrils flair. "Oh," he says, and there's a richer satisfaction to that one word than there had been to any of his rote threats, and Sam wonders, struck with unease what his scent had told Dean. He hears the shift in the back, and it's only the way that Dean's chained that prevents the snap of his teeth from latching into Sam. They pass closs enough that he can almost feel the touch. Dean retreats like he hadn't even meant to, like he just wanted to let Sam know that he wanted to. _Rip you apart with my teeth,_ a too-close memory tells him.  
  
With Dean lashed to a chair, Sam doesn't feel a mite more secure. Dean's tracking him round the room relentlessly, eyes dark and empty. Sam looks at his mouth, indisputably that at least is still Dean, and Dean licks his lips slowly, sinks in his teeth, white sharpness of his teeth denting the swell of his mouth like he's sinking into Sam's mouth instead, and he has no idea where that thought came from but he can't shake it. Dean's laughing as he watches Sam with his pathetic needles and bags of blood. "C'mon," he says, sounds almost lighthearted. "Be my good time boy Sammy. Come over here and give me a taste of the top shelf stuff," and his laugh is swallowed up into the darkness of Sam's shut eyelids.  
  
"Shut up Dean," he says, and fumbles with the bags, fingers slow with the lack of function in his arm.  
  
Dean, predictably, ignores him. "I'm a pretty generous man you know," he says, and the way he says it almost makes it sound reasonable. This is an _offer_ it says. Dean holds as many cards as Sam does right now, or so he'd like Sam to believe. "You can give me a little bit of that blood Sam, and in return I might let you suck my cock." The very reasonableness of the tone is worse than the words. What's worst of all is not that Sam considers it, because he's been considering it for years and setting it aside every time for all the reasonable and sensible reasons that any right minded person would invent. It's how much he wants to. There's something about the calmness of the way Dean suggests it, that tells him that Dean wouldn't think it so very terrible after all, and Sam's being running a long time from his own brain saying pretty much the same things. There's a sixteen year old inside him who is listening to every word, who hero-worships with a blinding intensity a golden brother, who pretty much wants to get on his knees right now.  
  
"Shut the fuck up," he says instead, takes a savage delight in saying it. "You're not Dean."  
  
That gets another laugh, and while the hair, the shirt and the filth that pours out of his mouth aren't Dean, the laugh is pretty much all him. The sort of laugh he doesn't give very often anymore. "Were you very much less Sam when you gnawed every drop you could get out of Ruby?" he asks. Then as though re-evaluating, he shifts back. "New deal. Suck my cock and I might let you feed off me. How'd you like to do it Sam? Want me to drip it in your mouth the way she did or take it straight from the source.  I'm easy, much as I hate to malign myself."  
  
Sam's heard worse. He's seen worse. He's an addict and has been for years, an alcoholic that works in a bar, the boy who drank demon's blood spilling an endless amount of it wherever he walks, and he's never. Never. It's not new, it's not original. So, the dreadful yearning that he feels in his gut is about as horrifying and unexpected as anything else about this. He knows what it is. It's the way Dean says it. The fact that it's Dean saying it at all, no matter what this shell actually is. If it walks like Dean, talks like Dean and smells like sin, what's the difference after all. He knows Dean can smell his weakness like a shark rising to bait.  
  
"Be a little like your bad soulless self Sammy," Dean says. "You know what his eyes felt like when he looked at me? Fucking fire. Prettiest thing about him was watching him do what I said, walk where I lead, because he thought that if he was very very good then he'd get to touch just a little bit. Watching you like that, jerked at the end of a leash, just begging for it? Hottest damn thing I've ever seen. Second to this right now of course. Eaten up with how bad you want it and too scared to take it."  
  
Sam can hear his own breathing almost more than Dean's words, the sound of his own blood hot and heavy in his ears. He tries to concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else, but the words crawl in anywhere and set up residence in his brain. "Stop," he says, but so quietly only he can really hear it.  
  
"I'm tied to a chair," Dean says, and he pretends to shrug helplessly. Sam isn't even looking at him and he can see it. "Think of all the things you could do. Slap me a little. You hate me talking so much, why don't you come over here and stop me?"  
  
There's a length of cloth in Sam's fingers and he's going to do what he should have done in the first place. Gag the thing that's walking around in his brother's body, digging up all the things that they'd agreed they'd never say and treating them like dirt. It's his first mistake, because Dean's worried up his own lip, painted his mouth on the inside, and when Sam's just close enough, he wraps a leg around him and pulls him forward enough that they're kissing, or would be kissing if there was anything halfway normal about this whole thing. It's not a kiss, it's Dean sharing a mouthful of his own blood with his brother. A lifetime, a hellstime of punishment for a previous transgression wiped out, the taste of it too much to bear. Sam can't pull away, can't risk a single precious drop. Ruby had tasted good. This tasted like heaven should have, not a mealy Thanksgiving apple pie. The richness and vitalness of Dean's blood - not fully demon - some distant part of Sam's brain noted and thought important for some reason he didn't care about anymore was unique and Sam felt himself fall.  
  
Dean had converted it into an actual kiss at some point, and high and floating, Sam didn't protest, sucked at the tongue Dean pushed into his mouth, bit at his lips, and groaned faintly at the way Dean nipped the corner of his mouth as though he wanted a repayment. "Rub against me," Dean says, and without any thought, Sam thrust against him, felt the hardness of Dean's dick pushing against him, the constrained throb of his own cock, too lost in the taste to figure out anything more complex. Dean's hands are still tied, but he doesn't need them to keep Sam close. "Jerk me off," he says, and there's nothing Sam wants more, but his fingers fumble, and fumble again until he can get into Dean's pants and curl his fingers around the hot hardness and clumsily jerk him off, fingers wet from the way Dean leaks all over him, and Sam is held in a kind of a stasis between all the things he wants - Dean in his mouth, Dean in him, to tip Dean back on that stupid chair and bury himself inside him, watch Dean lose it like that mouth obscene and gasping unable to frame another word.

In the end, it's easier to do what he's always done in moments of crisis and let Dean call the shots, let Dean tell him to jerk him off and to do it just like he says, a surrender in the moment that's as alien to him as the rest of this. There's blood in his mouth and come on his hand, and he can't remember why this is so bad, buries his head in Dean's shoulder and Dean turns that vicious mouth into his neck and bites down, too soft to break the skin, an eventual promise. "Yeah Sammy," he says, and there's more than a hint of a croon that takes Sam so far back into the past he might not even be here at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always welcome


End file.
